Black resentment flamed hotly up in his heart at the memory of the Westfall custom of willing the bulk of the great estate to the oldest son.  It had left his mother with a patrimony which Carl, inheriting, had chosen contemptuously to regard as a dwarfish thing of gold sufficient only for the heedless purchase of one flaming, brilliant hour of life.  That husbanded it might purchase a lifetime of gray hours tinged intermittently with rose or crimson, Carl had dismissed with a cynical laugh, quoting Omar Khayyam.

Starrett had sneeringly suggested that, to remedy his fallen fortunes—­he might marry Diane!  Carl laughed softly but recalling suddenly how Diane had looked as she stood in the doorway, the flame of her honest anger setting off her primitive grace, he frowned thoughtfully at the fire, swayed by one of the mad, reckless whims which frequently rocketed through his brain to heedless consummation.  Wherefore he presently dispatched a servant to Diane with a note scribbled carelessly upon the face of the ace of diamonds.

“May I see you?” it ran.  “I am still in the library.  If you like, I’ll come up.”

She came to the library, frankly surprised.  Carl rarely saw fit to apologize or seek advice.

With his ready gallantry, habitually colored by a subtle sex-mockery, Carl rose, drew a chair for her and leaned against the mantel, smiling.

“I’m sorry,” said he civilly, “I’m sorry Starrett so far forgot himself.”

“So am I,” said Diane.  “Bacchanalian tableaus are not at all to my liking.”

“Nor mine,” admitted Carl.  “As an aesthete I must own that Starrett is too fat for a really graceful villain.  I fancied you were indefinitely domiciled at the farm.  Aunt Agatha has been fussing—­”

“I was,” nodded Diane.  “A whim of mine brought me home.”

Carl dropped easily into a chair and glanced at his cousin’s profile.  The delicate oval of her face was firelit; her night-black hair one with the deeper shadows of the room.  There was mystery in the lovely dusk of Diane’s eyes—­and discontent—­and something mute and wistful crying for expression.

“I’ve a proposition to make,” said Carl lightly.  “It’s partly commercial, partly belated justice, partly eugenic and partly personal.”

“Your money is quite gone, is it not?” asked Diane, raising finely arched expressive eyebrows.

“It is,” admitted Carl ruefully.  “My career as a bibulous meteor is over.  Last night, after an exquisite shower of golden fire, I came tumbling to earth in the fashion of meteors, a disillusioned stone.  In other words—­stone broke.  May I smoke?”

“Assuredly.”

Carl lighted a cigarette.

“And the proposition which is at the same time commercial, eugenic and—­er—­personal?” reminded Diane curiously.  Carl ignored the delicate note of sarcasm.

“It is merely,” he said with a flash of impudence, “that you will marry me.”